


Death Has Reared Himself A Throne

by ReginaCorda



Series: Dusk of Summer [5]
Category: Fleurmione - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Ending, Choose Your Own Ending, F/F, I'm Sorry, Should have done this ages ago, Tragedy, kind of done a lot of growing, technically the original ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaCorda/pseuds/ReginaCorda
Summary: Original ending to the Dusk of Summer series, but I'm doing a "Choose your own ending" thing. So here's the rip-your-heart-out-and-smash-it-in-the-dirt version for the tragedy-lovers like myself. The still-real-but-less-painful-happier-everyone-grows-old-together version is also available.





	Death Has Reared Himself A Throne

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. It's been a long time, and I probably should have done this forever ago, but life decided to hold me underwater. Between some much-needed separation and a divorce, I've come to realize the original ending wasn't exactly written with the clearest of heads/hearts. I was miserable for years with my ex (contrary to anything on social media), and I think it's obvious that that misery reflected in my writing. I do enjoy writing tragedy, though I am loathe to admit everything going on weighed heavily on my original ending. I'm sorry for those of you who felt hurt and shorted by it, and I know this will not make up for that, nor is it intended to. But at least this way, the readers can choose if they'd like to be left with. I'm not sure if this cheapens the story at all, I certainly hope it doesn't, but either way I had a good time writing it and I hope you've enjoyed this ride. 
> 
>  
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Regina XX
> 
> P.S.
> 
> This picks up immediately following the last chapter of Thy Kingdom Come. Title from Edgar's 'The City By The Sea.'

Dueling broke out around them on the first floor. Death Eaters had penetrated Hogwarts with deadly intentions, and already had taken several victims. Death was amongst them, choosing neither side to protect, but reaped a bountiful harvest from both.

The Phantom was anything but hesitant. She threw herself into battle with all the strength she had, spells flying from her hands with a deadly, practiced ease; the itch, the urge, surged back like a powerful tide. Most she encountered lost their lives due to the surprise of seeing her alive, frozen on the spot just by the sight of her. Some shouted that she should be dead. Others thought they could try to kill her again. None came close.

Hermione was just as ruthless. She’d thrown all passion for preserving life to the wind and fought to kill. She was graceful, she was lithe, and she was lethal. Dancing and twirling a dangerous dance, she fought her assailants in twos and threes, switching between defensive and offensive charms with confidence despite deep-seated fear. These were not his strongest or most talented followers, but pups, their paws overlarge and clumsy in their haste. The real wolves had yet to join the chaos.

The two Veelas, after killing everything in their path, sprinted down the ruined corridors, leaped over broken pillars and fallen statues, and an enormous blast sent them sprawling to the floor.

Blonde hair was stained with blood as Fleur struggled to her feet, disorientated as her balance fled, lost somewhere in the uneven fluid in her cochlea. She staggered to Hermione, and lifted a bough of wood from her midsection, giving her enough room to wiggle out. Fleur let it drop with a thud, and shook her head gently, blood now trickling down her cheek.

“No…no, no, no…”

They made their way towards the sound, and the first real brush of Death touched them. Fred Weasley lay dead on the flagstones, the ghost of a laugh frozen on his features. Percy was on his knees beside his brother, tears streaking his face. Harry was desperately trying to move Fred back into the castle, to keep him safe from further harm, but Percy was more than unwilling to let go of him. Fleur, still dizzy, helped Harry, ducking low to avoid stray curses, and hid the body in a niche where a suit of armor had stood before.

Percy finally let go of Fred when a hooded figure ran past.

“ROOKWOOD!” he bellowed, and charged after him.

Hermione physically restrained Ron, and forced him into a passageway behind a tapestry, beckoning Harry and Fleur to follow.

“Ron, we can’t, not yet! We have to find the snake, remember? One last Horcrux! We’ll have to fight to get to the snake, but please keep that in mind!” she was crying too, for tears stained her cheeks, but she was desperate to control Ron, to keep him from making horrible decisions that would leave him dead.

“Horcrux?” Fleur whispered, terrified that she’d heard right.

The lioness gave an apologetic look, but did not answer her. “Harry, look into his thoughts, find him, find the bloody snake.”

He closed his eyes at her command, and even through the shadows, Fleur could see his eyes flicking behind their lids.     

He came back to himself with a jolt, his eyes flying open.

“The Shrieking Shack. Snake’s with him, but it’s got some sort of magical protection around it. He just sent Lucius Malfoy to go find Snape.”

“He’s not even fighting?” Fleur asked incredulously, a snarl marring her features.

“He doesn’t think he needs to fight; he thinks I’m going to go to him.”

“But, Harry, why would you do that?” The Veela asked, her expression a mixture of extreme confusion and the snarl she’d given at Voldemort’s cowardice.

“He knows you’re after them,” Hermione said softly. “And he’s keeping Nagini close to him, so to kill the snake…”

“I have to go to him.”

“I’ll go.” Fleur said at once.

“Fleur—”

“Give me this, Harry. Let me help you.” Her voice was stern, her demeanor solid. She wouldn’t back down. Not by Harry’s command, nor Hermione’s plea. The Veela’s trademarks were proudly displayed over her body in talons and fangs, and she looked more fearsome than Harry had ever seen her. No one would dare attack her and think they could live, even if she did stand without a wand. He doubted a wand would be able to deal the damage her hands did anyway.

“Fleur, you don’t under—”

Two Death Eaters charged into their hiding place. With a rough order, barked from Fleur, the three ran for cover, as the Veela engaged in a heavily outweighed duel. Harry threw the Cloak over himself, Ron and Hermione, and disappeared in time to see the first curse miss Fleur by inches.

The Veela was unmoving in her place, hands held out like claws. One of the Death Eaters laughed at her.

“Pretty little poppet without a wand, eh? You make it too easy, lovely.”

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asked softly, her eyes locked with his.

“I don’ suppos’ that matters much.” He brandished his wand, and Fleur responded with an almost casual wave. His curse flew away harmlessly.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Hit her!” the other yelled, sending her own curse. Again, Fleur deflected it.

“Oh, but it does matter,” the Phantom replied, her voice icy as she stepped closer. “You see, I have hunted your people. I, single-handedly, have thinned your numbers. I, without word or wand, have become a thing of legend amongst you.” The temperature dropped around them, ice licking up the walls of the castle and spreading across the floor. The Death Eaters’ breaths had quickened, for it now came in puffs.  

“You can’t be…”

“I am. Fleur Delacour. Daughter of Apolline, daughter of Asteria, chief of the Veelas of the First Mother, and the Phantom of the Death Eaters. I suggest you turn and run now.”

Neither of them gave up their stance, though they shook violently from either the chill or fear.

“Fair enough.”

Spells took flight almost instantly. Though they were intensely cold, fear and harsh chemicals ran rampant in their blood, and that kept them alive, if only for a little while longer. But soon, they too fell to Fleur’s hand, and joined the other fatalities that lay on Hogwarts’ grounds.

Shortly after they’d hit the ground, the Veela joined the masses engaged in combat in the courtyard, sparing no thought to the three Gryffindors. With a quick flick of her wrist, the silver lioness charged through bodies of friends and foes, her path set for the ancient Veela forests of France.

Another Death Eater engaged her, just as Hermione ran by her. She delivered the killing blow in the same motion she followed the lioness. Together, they covered ground quickly, slowing occasionally to let Harry and Ron catch up or to protect themselves from spiders or the giants’ uncoordinated clubs.

Enormous shapes fell from the sky above, and bursts of flame lit up the darkened world of the forest around them. Shamin opened his jaws and let out a booming call, setting fire to the giant as it began to swat at him. Alkaia joined him in his assault, freeing the Veelas to run after Harry and Ron where they had fallen a distance in front of them. Hermione immediately recognized the culprit. 

Black, ragged cloaks billowed in nonexistent wind, gray, thin, dead fingers reached out from their sleeves. Feeble flickers of silver light issued from Harry and Ron’s wands, but no great animal leaped forth.

“Fleur!” Hermione called, the rosewood wand already poised to cast.

The Veela followed Hermione’s wand, and lifted her hand. Two lionesses leaped into the air, roaring as they charged the offending dementors. Behind them, a hare, boar, and fox followed, chasing the cold, dead creatures away from the two fallen.

“Come on, Harry. Think of something happy,” Luna said softly upon reaching him. “We’re all here with you, fighting. Come on, now…”

Feebly, Harry lifted his wand. His stag materialized almost reluctantly, but after it had fully formed, it cantered around them in a circle, throwing his antlers towards the dementors.

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” Luna said, smiling brightly.

“Yeah, it is,” Harry sighed, standing again.

“Can’t thank you enough,” Ron said as Seamus and Ernie helped him to his feet. “Just saved our—”

Another giant, this one much larger than the last, thundered out of the forest, striking the ground with a tree-sized club.

“RUN!” Harry yelled, but they didn’t need telling. They scattered, taking long, leaping strides as they tried to outpace the monstrosity behind them. Luna, Ernie, and Seamus ran back to the battle, while the Veelas, Harry and Ron charged towards the Whomping Willow. Shamin and Alkaia were on the giant in seconds of hearing their screams, bloodthirsty and ruthless, though Alkaia was almost clumsy in combat as she struck.

With an expert flick of her wrist, the lioness levitated a stone and touched a single knot on the old tree. It paused in its flailing, and the Harry, after a moment of hesitation, went into the tunnel, the other three following him.

The tunnel was much smaller than Hermione remembered. Four years ago, it had been nothing to crawl through, but now she had to squeeze down as much as she could, tucking her elbows underneath her chest and lying flat on her stomach to wiggle forward. The ground shook as the giant fell to the ground above them, as Shamin and Alkaia crowed in victory before they left to find other targets.

Blood was rushing in Hermione’s ears, every breath amplified tenfold as she was terrified Voldemort would hear them, or had heard the dragon’s call. Voices carried over the distance, muffled and disembodied, but easily recognizable all the same. Silently, she tapped Harry, and passed the Cloak to him. His head and back vanished before her eyes, but the sweltering heat did not recede. A small shaft of light appeared as Harry moved what appeared to be a crate blocking the exit, and the voices came clear.

“—my Lord, their resistance is crumbling—” Snape’s cool voice floated through the tunnel. He was speaking softly, as though his full attention was not on the conversation at hand. Voldemort cut him off.

“—and it is doing so without your help. Skilled wizard as though you are, Severus, I do not think it will make much difference now. We are almost there. Almost…”

“Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please.”

A swishing of robes told the Veela Voldemort was moving with great purpose and precision. The light flickered briefly as he passed.

“I have a problem, Severus.”

“My Lord?”

“It does not obey me. It has not performed the extraordinary magic legend promised it would. I have only performed my usual magic. Nothing more. Could you imagine why that is, Severus?”

“I—I cannot, my Lord.”

Danger was potent. It filled the air with electricity, and made Fleur’s hair stand on end; intently, she listened with all her senses, and detected the harsh pheromones of fear.

“I have thought long and hard, Severus,” Voldemort continued, pacing leisurely around the room. “Do you know why I have called you back from battle?”

“No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter.”

“You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching others fall around him, for his sake, and he will want to stop it at any cost. He will come.”

“But my Lord, he could be killed accidentally by one other than yourself—”

“My instructions to my Death Eaters are explicitly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends, the more the better, but do not kill him. But it is not of Potter than I wished to speak, Severus. I wished to speak of you. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable.”

Snape’s voice had begun to tremble. “My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But—let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you—”

“I have told you, no! My concern at the moment is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!”

He paused, presumably studying the Elder Wand in his hand.

“My wand of yew did everything I asked of it. Except kill Harry Potter. Twice, it failed me. Ollivander advised me to try a different wand, for the torture of the twin cores would not allow them to hurt one another so profoundly. But Lucius’s wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.”

“I—I don’t have explanation, my Lord.”

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, taken from Albus Dumbledore’s grave. And all this long night, I’ve sat here wondering, wondering why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform the magic legend says it must perform for its rightful owner… and I think I have the answer.”

Snape did not speak.

“While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot truly be mine.”

Another word was whispered in a harsh hiss, and Nagini attacked. Snape screamed, and blood spurted from the severed artery, staining the floor under him as he fell, shaking, his hands unable to slow the blood loss as he clutched the wound at his neck. Wordlessly, Voldemort moved across the floor, and exited the shack. As soon as Harry felt he had a decent distance between him and the vile wizard, he shoved the crate aside and climbed into the room, and for reasons unknown to him, rushed to the dying man.

The other three followed wordlessly. Fleur did not attempt to heal his wounds, he did not beg for them to be mended. He simply stared at Harry as though he had expected his presence all along, no sign of hatred marring his features. From his eyes, whitish-blue tears poured as he looked at Harry, and in breathless rasps, he begged him to take them. Hermione conjured a flask, and every drop was collected by Harry’s shaking hand. With his last breath, Snape implored him to look at him, and when green eyes met black, an expression of pure tranquility settled in his eyes. A moment later, it was gone, the color completely drained from his face, and his blood stopped spurting, for every ounce stained the floor.

An odd feeling of sorrow settled on Harry. This was the man whom he had hated all his years at Hogwarts. This was the man who’d sold his parents and himself out to Lord Voldemort. But this was also the man who’d been badly hurt by his father’s cruelty. The little boy who’d befriended his mother, shown her that she wasn’t a freak, that he could do magic, too; the little boy who’d been bullied at school, forced into reclusion and a lonesome lifestyle after his best friend took up with his bully.

But no more than a few moments ago, he’d also been the man who’d begged to be the one to deliver him to Voldemort himself.

But, why had he been so insistent when he told Harry to take his tears? Why had they shed without shame? Why had peace finally smoothed the furrow from his brow upon meeting Harry’s eyes for a final time?

 Voldemort’s voice broke his train of thought.

“You have fought valiantly this night. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet, you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a precious loss and waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately.

“You have one hour. Dispose of your dead, and treat your injured.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have allowed your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the battle myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman and child who had tried to conceal you from me. One hour.”

Harry’s face was drained of color.

“Stop, Harry,” Hermione pleaded, trying to meet his eyes. “You didn’t let them die, they fought willingly, they knew the risk. We’ll plan, we’ll figure something out, we’ll finish this—”

Harry had already begun to retreat, back down the tunnel. Fleur followed wordlessly, Hermione and Ron behind her. Once they emerged beneath the Willow, they sprinted back to the ruins of Hogwarts.

The castle sat in desolation. Huge chunks had fallen to piles of rubble, masonry and timber lay broken together. Hermione’s heart lurched in her chest. That castle had been her kingdom. That castle had been her home. She’d grown up within its walls, learned powerful magic, fallen in love—and how badly did she want her own children to inherit this home, this castle, this kingdom? How badly did she want to prowl the streets of Hogsmeade with them, show them the best hangouts, or shop for school supplies on Diagon? Or tell them the secrets she’d discovered in the library, where she’d soaked up history like she couldn’t bear to live without having read every word the room had to offer her? To tell them the story of their mother’s dauntless performance during the Triwizard, how she’d been so charming despite having gone so long without real human friendship? How she and their Uncle Harry had slipped out of so many narrow corners, up to no good despite her desperate attempts to keep them from mischief?

She would fight for that future, she decided, opening her stride as she neared the castle. She would fell anyone who stood in her, and her unconceived child’s way of that happy future.

Her footfalls slammed against the flagstones as she crossed the bridge, anger and rage seeping from every fiber of her being. This hot, seething wrath quickly fled her, however. As she took in the bodies that lay strewn about the courtyard, where just last year, she’d studied for her N.E.W.T.s. As she realized the sounds of battle had died, not an echo remained, but had been replaced by mournful wails of the living over their lost loved. Her pace slowed until she was barely lifting her feet. She could  _feel_ Death. She could smell him. It wasn’t of rot and decay, it was far too early for that. But the pungent odor of fear still hung thick in the air, and a horrible emptiness gnawed at her stomach.

Fleur stood beside her, and placed a hand at the small of her back. Hermione jumped at the contact, and tucked herself against her Veela. Fleur’s expression portrayed everything she felt. Longing. Great sorrow. Deep-seated fear. Iron resolve. She drew a deep breath, and hesitantly made her way forward into the Great Hall, every inch of her demeanor screaming,  _I hope all I love are well._

They both broke upon seeing the Weasley family gathered around Fred. Fleur, upon seeing Tonks and Remus laid out beside him, fell to her knees, clutching her best friend’s hand. They couldn’t catch up, now. They couldn’t share another drink together. They couldn’t remiss Moody’s antics and discuss whiskey. They couldn’t beg Teddy to say one of their names, and swear a gurgle from the boy was him answering the request for their own.

She gently cupped Tonks’ face in her hands, her tears splashing over the pallid, waxen skin. She was cool beneath her touch, and remained still. The Veela shook violently as she sobbed. She’d only given birth a mere week ago. She’d only been married the better part of a year. Even so, in death, Tonks looked peaceful, despite having such a small amount of time with her claimed happiness. She looked younger than Fleur had ever seen, the glow of motherhood still resting in the lines around her lips, no doubt carved there from the moment Teddy was placed in her arms.

Hermione came to her wordlessly. She held the Veela, her hold tight and unyielding, even as Fleur clutched her shoulders in a bruising grip. She knew why she held so tightly. She knew why she didn’t relent. She was her anchor, and the distraught Veela was very close to flying away. If she didn’t hold on to her, she’d be lost for sure.

Hermione cried into her hair as she rocked Fleur, whispering softly to her. So many had been lost. So very, very many. But despite the danger, the injured and the maimed demanded treatment, for if they were to die, they were to die fighting. Hermione had to credit her fellow students for their bravery and courage, even though some would find it foolish. Martyrdom has always been a double-edged sword.

Pomfrey was making rounds, and the house-elves had taken it upon themselves to pass water and sandwiches out to those would could stand to eat. They were few and far between.

Fleur stood suddenly, her back ramrod straight, though tears had not stopped. She helped Hermione to her feet, and approached the Weasleys. They offered their condolences, cried with them, then gave them their space. Another resolve had settled in Fleur, and met Pomfrey as she was coming though again, asking where she could help. Together, the two Veelas mended broken bones, closed jagged wounds, discovered their own wounds upon someone pointing out a blossom of crimson, previously unnoticed. They healed themselves and each other, and lost themselves in the work they performed, thankful for a distraction, a chance to build a wall of resistance until the battle was truly over. Until Harry won.

When every maimed warrior had been healed, Fleur stepped outside of the castle for air. Hermione followed her, hesitant to touch her, but unwilling to allow a space to form between their bodies. They looked out over the pitted earth, the scarred grounds from clubs and spells and pounding footfalls in silence.

“Have you seen Harry?” Fleur asked softly.

“No,” Hermione returned.

The Veela drew a breath and looked up at the moon. “The hour’s nearly up. He might have gone…”

“Don’t. I know what you’re thinking. Please, Fleur, don’t.”

Fleur made a rumbling noise and crossed her arms. “I’m going. Not to fight, not to interfere, just to look for him. Bring him back, if I find him.”

Hermione didn’t look pleased, but Fleur was resolute in her stance, in her words. The Veela she loved still had not yet returned, and the Phantom stood resolved before her. “Promise me that’s all you’ll do.”

“If I come across a Death Eater, they will die, but I do not go with the intention of hunting them.”

Hermione’s nostrils flared angrily. “Fleur.”

“This is what I learned, Hermione. This is what I became. Fighting it is like fighting instinct, or telling your heart not to beat. I’ll be quick, back before you know it. That, I promise you.”

Reluctantly, Hermione nodded. Fleur met her lips briefly, and ran for the forest. When she reached the tree line, she looked over her shoulder at Hogwarts. The moonlight sparkled on the calm, still waters of the saltwater inlets, and cast the kingdom by the sea in an eerie glow. The silhouette of a dragon crossed the sky, and disappeared into the trees. She nodded, more to the castle than to herself, and grit her teeth.

From the high bows of an ash tree, she watched silently. With the dark of night and thick branches of the tree, she was completely obscured from view, and took full advantage of her concealment. Despite Voldemort’s recall of his forces, a patrol was set up, presumably to watch for Harry, though there was no token to suggest he’d passed. A pair of stocky, masked wizards made their way near her perch, and she readied her body for attack.

When she leaped, her body stretched out, her hands easily clenching around the backs of their necks upon contact. They fell forward, their wands rolling away from them and became lost amongst fallen branches. They called desperately, and were abruptly silenced as the Veela commanded them quiet. When a few others arrived, heralded by the cries of their comrades, the Veela was safely concealed in the trees again.

She made her move once more, and again, she rendered them to a pile of bodies on the forest floor. Even with the latest cry, no others came for fear of her, and rightfully so. But the Veela did not return to the earth, choosing the trees over the ground for the protection offered. A rustling drew her attention, and she found another target. Though her vision was impaired, she found the neck of her prey easily through it, and before she delivered the killing blow, she saw exactly what she’d caught.

Aella studied her with a knowing expression, gently coaxing Fleur’s hands away from her throat when she saw recognition flash in her eyes, thankful that her cousin hadn’t resorted to using her legendary wandless magic in favor of her hands. Fleur nodded; a silent apology. Aella squeezed her shoulder gently, and set off on her own path, away from Fleur; the branches hardly moving as she leaped from tree to tree.

A sudden series of color stopped Fleur’s progress forward in the hunt. Reds and silvers lit up the forest several feet from where she perched, laughing and jeering echoing off the trees.

“Dead! The boy is dead at last!”

She left her stomach drop. No. No, impossible. That would mean…

With incredible speed, Fleur turned tail, and retraced her winding path through the forest and back to the castle. Hermione found her, harried and wild, her breathing uneven and her whole body emitting the foul odor of fear.

“Fleur? Where is he? Did you—”

“Harry Potter is dead.” Voldemort’s voice boomed out, his form appearing from the other side of the bridge. Hermione paled as her jaw dropped, as her eyes found Hagrid, tethered by chains, being pulled from the forest, holding Harry’s limp body. Even from a distance, she could smell the putrid rot from Voldemort’s withered soul. “He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.

“The battle is won. You have lost half your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continued to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of your castle now, kneel before me, welcome your king into his kingdom, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

People filed out of the castle, some were crying, some limped, but all of them wore a uniform expression of rage and spite. They would not give up. They would not bow down. They would not give up their kingdom.

Their voices lifted to call Harry’s name, desperate to see some flicker of life to betray Voldemort’s words. There was nothing.

“SILENCE! It is over! Lay him down, Hagrid, at my feet where he belongs!”

The limp form of Harry Potter was gently lowered to the grass, lovingly sat by the gentle giant as tears cascaded from his eyes.

“You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“He beat you!” Ron roared from Hermione’s side, and his scream seemed to break the charm Voldemort had cast as their voices lifted once more in affront, challenging him. Another bang silenced them.

“He was killed trying to sneak out of the castle grounds. Killed while trying to save himself—”

Neville rushed forward and charged at Voldemort, his wand held high. The Dark Lord raised his own and wrought the boy to the ground.

“And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh. “Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”

“Ah, yes.” Voldemort murmured, looking at Neville while he struggled to his feet, unarmed. “But you are pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”

“So what if I am?” Neville spat.

“You show spirit and bravery and you come from noble stock. You will make a valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“When hell freezes over.” Neville snarled.

“Very well,” said Voldemort, danger thick in his tone. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, on your head,” he said, his voice dropping, “be it.”

With a flick of his wand and object soared from the broken windows of Hogwarts, and landed evenly on Neville’s head.

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” said Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone, won’t they, Neville Longbottom?” He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still. “Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to oppose me.” He flicked his wand again, and then the Sorting Hat upon his head burst into flames.

The warriors of Hogwarts broke the second Silencing Charm Voldemort had placed on them. Their voices lifted to shatter the night, their spells flying to Neville’s aid and to Voldemort’s attack. The earth shook as Grawp came crashing into view, calling Hagrid’s name as best he could as he bowled through Death Eaters.

Fleur leaped into the battle again with newfound vigor. Her lip curled high over her teeth, her voice laced with venom as she spit out curses, as spells flew from her hands. Her skin tightened, and for the second time in her life, feathers broke through.

She cried out, saliva leaping from her fangs, and she brought up her hands in front of her, and ripped Death Eaters apart. Blood splashed the night, severed limbs thumped to the ground and curdling screams followed their detachment. Her feathers bristled, striking blue against the dark night and splashes of blood. Her magic reached out on its own accord and tore minds to shreds as her hands did bodies.

Then, above all the chaos, Hagrid’s voice rose over them all.

“HARRY!” he shouted. “HARRY—WHERE’S HARRY?”

_Harry?_

She stole a glance to where Voldemort had stood, where Harry had lain defeated at his feet. The ground was empty, and gave no token to where the boy had gone.

Then, something else caught her eye. Something silver and ruby, a graceful arc through the air, and then Nagini’s great head soaring away from her body, the Sword of Gryffindor held tightly in both of Neville’s steady hands.

In front of her, centaurs charged the Death Eaters with sharp hooves and arrows, thestrals joined in with aerial attacks of their own. Shamin hit the ground beside her, roaring with all his strength as a burst of flame left his jaws.

“Go! Take to the sky, and let fire rain down on them!”

Again, the Horntail spread his wings and caught the wind, arcing over the Dark Lord’s troops with long bellows of rage and fire. Alkaia and several others joined him, some bore Veela riding upon their backs, and unleashed hell itself in streams of liquid fire.

They were being forced back into the castle as the Death Eaters surged forward, sweltering under the Horntail’s fire despite their charms. Fleur quickly changed her course and doubled around the wall of the castle, behind the ranks of Death Eaters. From the broken windows, she could see brilliant flashes of light as spells rebounded off one another, as they struck targets. She felt Voldemort’s wrath explode as Bellatrix screamed and fell. But she was not his last follower. Fleur had plenty more kills to make as the Horntails took guard at the doors to the castle, and she continued to make her way around.

Death followed in her wake, for she made a bountiful harvest. Her spells fell like a deadly rain upon her victims, and they in turn fell to litter the ground. But she didn’t use her magic alone. She flung a curse and collapsed a trachea with her hand in the same heartbeat. She sent ice flying as her heel landed hard against the skull of another. Her talons knotted themselves in greasy hair and jerked backwards so that forehead met knee.

In her trail, she left mangled bodies, impaled on ice and robbed of breath, with broken necks and fractured skulls. She was ruthless. She was fearless. And she was finished.

Shamin nuzzled her gently when she reached him, bodies twitching behind her as life fled them. She was panting, her face streaked with dirt and sweat, her hands burning from the magic that still lingered on the surface. Inside, she could hear Harry’s duel with Voldemort, and turned away. He would prevail. She had no doubt about that. And she could not interfere, even if she wished to assist him. Some deep part of her knew, had always known, that at this moment, she could not help him. It was him, and Voldemort, as the prophecy had said in the Department of Mysteries. But she could still do something to help.

“Circle the perimeters, fend off the giants. If anyone else is still hiding there, kill them, and bring their soiled carcasses back here.” She ran a loving hand down the Horntail’s muzzle. He took off and soared, the others disappearing into the trees as they too continued the search. She drew a deep breath, and the feathers fell from her body, replaced by dirty, sweaty skin and shod by torn clothes. Her teeth and talons remained, however, bloodied and streaked with dirt.

She had her own security to pull in the dragon’s absence, however, and didn’t bother taking the time to clean herself. Again, she took to the wall of the castle, and scanned her surroundings. Nothing but the breeze disturbed her senses, not a stray scent, or sound to make her weary of moving forward. She found the bodies of those who’d been on patrol when Harry was called into the Forbidden Forest, untouched since she’d left. She found bodies of Hogwarts’ students. They were two boys, perhaps fifth years. One, a Slytherin who’d refused to leave and chose instead to fight gallantly, clutching the hand of a Ravenclaw pupil. Their wands were snapped and thrown to their chests, but their grip on one another’s hands were so strong it would not be broken even in death, for Fleur had to lift them both at the same time as delivered them back to their kingdom. She returned to where she’d found them, and continued her search.

Then, something changed. The air, previously charged with tension and anxiety, suddenly became easy to breathe. Suddenly, there wasn’t taint or danger anymore.

The earth beneath the pads of her toes seemed to relax, the trees breathing the fresh breeze that whispered through them. She looked around. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the sky and land, stars twinkling overhead. Woodland fairies peeped out from their trees; eyes alight and wings sparkling, ducking back when they saw the Veela.

Fleur turned, and sprinted back to the castle. There, on the ruined remains of the stone bridge, lay Voldemort’s defeated body, crumpled and pathetic as someone had brought the body out as if to prove he was in fact no more. As if to prove he, too, was nothing but a man.

It was over… She was alive. She would live on, breathing clean, untainted air, raising children in happiness with Hermione on new, revived soil.

Hermione.

Frantically, Fleur searched for the brunette, a wide smile lifting her lips as the Phantom was crushed, destroyed, by this surge of happiness. She forgot everything she’d just done. Every ounce of pain she’d delivered, every life she’d handed over to Death, the blood on her hands, gone. Nonexistent. Not even history. Not even memory.

But then, she saw the others, how they mourned and cried, she realized how selfish she was. A young Hufflepuff girl had fallen on the ground before her, a trail of blood smeared on her lower lip. She lay face down, no movement betrayed breath, if any breath was drawn. A gentle touch confirmed that she had died hours ago.

The Veela bowed her head briefly before rolling the girl to her back, using a discarded handkerchief to clean the dirt, dust, and blood from her face gingerly. For a moment, she studied the brown eyes of the deceased. They were dark, like chocolate, but a film was robbing them of color. Her cheeks, though slightly flecked with blood, appeared to be rosy, but they too were becoming waxen and discolored as life fled even from the smallest cells of her body. The girl’s robe lay a few meters from her, abandoned sometime during the battle. Fleur lifted it and placed it over her face after manually closing her eyes. No one had yet to stumble upon her, and with another soft prayer, the Veela rose up from the ground and continued her search.

Many around her did the same and cared for the deceased whose family and friends had yet to find them; others held lost loves to their chests, weeping into hair and flesh alike. The bridge was strewn with bodies, a sepulcher of sorts. There was an immense absence of joy for the only death they wished, and that joy would not come for many years, when their children read about this holocaust in their classes, nothing more than a page in history. Instead, the sorrow was as thick in the air as it was hollow in chests and hearts. Weights pressed upon every pair of shoulders, so psychologically powerful it crippled them physically.

But, although the war was won, the battle wasn’t quite finished. Giants charged out of the forest, breaking the dragon’s defenses as cacophony rose up to deafen the somber quite. Shamin swopped low, massive flames taking the target head on before it collapsed. Alkaia, however, was not as experienced as her father in combat and in one fatal blow, a giant’s club brought her to the ground like a swatted fly. Shamin roared out, and attacked the beast with everything he had, driving it backwards into its fellows. His daughter did not rise.

Through all this chaos, one last Death Eater had remained undetected. Through the midst of the crowds of sobbing people, over flashes of fire and dragon’s roars, a final flash of green light shot through the air; the Veela watched as the target fell, the impact it made with the stone reverberated in her ears. A lightning-fast red streak pursued the killer, but Fleur had no concern to either of them any longer.

Every process in her body halted. Her mind fled, for once knowing what her heart did not. The intelligent glint of her eye faded, dulled. Her pupils dilated further, the cat-like slit now opened so wide they appeared almost human. Her heart stuttered, failing her momentarily. She ran, with no direction or intellect, her body relying on instinct alone. 

The Veela crashed through stone and rubble, blood seeping from her wounds, but she never felt an ounce of pain. Her knees struck the ground hard, her hands reached out, desperate to grasp, her eyes wide and terrified. A woman’s body lay still on the stone before her, uncomfortably positioned. The Veela’s hands shook as they touched the brunette’s pale, upturned cheek. With a tender force, she turned the girl’s face to her.

A somber, animalistic wail erupted from the Veela, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her body fell over her mate’s, screaming into Hermione’s warm chest. She clutched at the long, dark tresses, memorizing the silk between her fingers. Her hands cupped the lioness’s cheeks, shanking as another scream tore through her larynx. She looked deeply into the open hazel eyes of her dearest, and upon seeing no light or life there, she beat her hands against the stone beneath her in hope to find herself thrashing away from a nightmare. Blood seeped from her battered hands, but her body was numb, its pain far overshadowed by the anguish of her soul tearing.

No soul dared interrupt her misery, her mournful cries filling the night, other voices combined to make a choir of painful shrieks. The empty sky shouted back at them, multiplying their misery tenfold. Her concerto died down after several long, grueling minutes of screaming herself hoarse, she resorted to soft, whimpering cries.

Her mind eluded her completely, leaving her heart alone to bear her pain. She lay crumpled over Hermione’s silent, still body. Others continued to watch and stare, never seeing a Veela show her despair so plainly. Minutes felt like hours, but the Veela no longer had a use for time’s passage.

After few brave souls attempted to approach her, to comfort her, but they were met with angry warning snarls and flashes of teeth. Harry watched from a distance after having been drawn from the castle upon hearing her cries. His stubborn nature urged him to attempt to console her, though he was very reluctant to approach his friend where she lay dead. But he approached anyway, his chest constricting as a mess of brown hair came into view, then dead hazel eyes that stared without seeing. He clenched his fist and choked a sob as he stopped before the pair.

 A spark of recognition glinted in the blue eyes upon his approach; no feral growl greeted him. Assuming his welcome, he knelt in front of both Veela and his dearly departed best friend. Though he did not touch her, made no move to do so, the Veela clutched her mate closer to her body, lying on her side on the hard, cold stone. Hermione’s face was tucked beneath the blonde’s chin, limply nestled against her chest.

“She shouldn’t be like this.” Harry sighed, tears rolling down his cheeks. “She deserves life and love and happiness with you. She saved my life more times than I can count, she saved my sanity, she saved the whole bloody, God-forsaken world!” He roared. Blue eyes appraised him defensively, holding Hermione’s body impossibly tighter. She gave a low hiss and bore her teeth, her face terribly misshapen in the feral expression. Tears streamed from her eyes relentlessly, though she made no move to wipe them away as she stared, unblinking, at Harry.

“Can you hear me?” He asked hopelessly, receiving no answer from the Veela. “Fleur…? Please…” The blonde watched him carefully, her breath short and shallow as she drew it. Another sob burst from her chest with a snarl. Again, her screams ripped her throat to shreds as her entire body wrenched with the effort to throw them to the night and soon died off once more against the sky. Her voice itself was broken, cutting the air like jagged glass as it left her mouth, now in small, weak whimpers. 

The Veela turned her face into Hermione’s neck, seeming recognizing defeat. Harry reached out slowly, retracting his hand after a moment as he thought better of it. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to sob, to scream hexes at the moon for shining so bloody bright upon this massacre of innocence, future, mystery and love. He wished he could share the Veela’s pain, he wished he’d done more, he wished he could try again and do something sooner and save more lives like he so desperately wanted to do in the first place.

But there was no going back.

There would be no restoration. What was gone was dead, and could never be returned. What happened had been inscribed in his destiny from the moment of conception and everyone who had so much as a string of their own fate entwined with his had been impacted so profoundly, so permanently, it could never be unwritten. The moment that bushy-haired girl peered into his compartment the first time he rode the Hogwarts Express had begun to join the ends of strings together, previously unbound. When they both were named Gryffindors and learned the value of pride and bravery, a knot was tied. When he’d rushed to her aid at the thought of a little girl, alone and crying in a bathroom while a troll stalked the corridors, he’d thought of nothing else but helping her, not for fame or glory, but because it was the right thing to do. And as the creature lie defeated, when she took the fall in exchange for friendship and comradery, she had sealed her fate, and at the same time, though knowing was impossible, had sealed the blonde Veela’s, too. Each moment had passed with little thought to the future, to the moment when she, and her beloved, would lie dead and dying on the ground before Harry’s eyes.

He watched with a heavy heart, though bloodshot eyes and dirty, cracked glasses, as the blonde witch lay broken and bleeding, desperately clinging to her beloved. Tears poured from her eyes, making trails as the small rivers hit Hermione’s skin and carried dirt and dust over her paled cheek.

The Veela buried her nose in her mate’s hair, her eyes screwed shut. Her growls and snarls ripped from her throat, louder this time, as her body began to seize. Onlookers raised their bleary eyes once more, offering the Veela as much sympathy as they could muster. Again, they joined her cries; again the chorus filled the night as their hearts bore the burden of heavy absence and gave voice to their misery. Again, they cursed the moon and stars; again, their fists beat the ground, trying in vain to uproot some nonexistent answer as to when their torture would relent.

But only death would bring release. Only death would allow the pain to recede. Only falling into an unknown, unnamed abyss from which there is no return or consciousness would allow escape. But only the Veela would be privileged such sweet redemption. Only the Veela could not heal from the damage inflicted; the others, they could find comfort, but for the blonde Veela, no salve could be found to nurture her wounds.

And that knowledge ran within her blood, poisoning her from the inside out.

Like venom, it spread though her, the disease potent and deadly. It crippled her as her heart slowed, stuttering in her chest, but the loud, inhuman snarls that burst from her lasted till the end. Until her heart failed and she slumped lifeless against Hermione’s body, her last, shrill howl fading away into the night. Somewhere, not too far off in the distance, another cry ripped the night apart, and a burst of flame lit up the sky with the shrill noise. Seconds after the last spark had died, a heavy body hit the ground, and was still.

Harry opened his mouth, and screamed.

He screamed into the night with everyone else, adding his voice to the echoing ruin of Hogwarts. He saw, as they lay together—still, unmoving, lifeless—everything that could have been.

He saw Christmases and New Year’s celebrations and birthday parties, all surrounded by the promised love and joy they had been denied so long, unhindered by the fear that had followed them for years.

He saw a wedding ceremony and two white dresses, Fleur throwing back Hermione’s veil to find tear tracks running down her face and a broad, happy smile lifting her lips.

He saw Hermione glowing with pregnancy, Fleur proud and tall beside her, worry etched into every action as she cleared obstacles for her mate; as she held her hand during birth; as her arms encircled both the lioness, and their newborn daughter.

 He saw a little girl with an unruly blonde mane, bounding through a meadow, canning jar in hand as she chased fireflies. Another girl, barely old enough to walk, tottered after her, dark hair swept over faceted blue eyes; Hermione’s hands were outstretched protectively behind her, catching the young child just before she fell.

He saw himself playing with the young girls, building forts with them, instructing them in ways of mischief; he saw how delighted Teddy’s color-changing hair made them as they squealed happily; he watched as Fleur taught them how to map the skies, reading the stories written in the constellations of their futures and loves; he saw Hermione kissing their bruised knees and watching over them as they studied their schoolbooks, preaching the value of knowledge just as their other blonde mother preached the value of strength.

He saw the two little girls grow having been taught the value of love, this lesson given by two teachers in soft, subtle touches and words. In gentle kisses, or the way Fleur held Hermione’s hand as though she were her only anchor. The way Hermione snuggled firmly into the blonde’s arms, into her safe harbor. The laughing that ensued Christmas morning when the children threw themselves into bed with their mothers, demanding that they rise and begin to celebrate and open the gifts tucked away under the tree. He saw the two watching the sunset together, grandchildren on their knees, their knotted hands folded over one another’s, wrinkles at their eyes and lips, blonde and brown long ago surrendered to white and gray.

These things slipped through the fingers of possibility before ever having the chance to manifest. The harsh flame of reality and sorrow burned these beautiful would-be’s—could-be’s—to ash. The denial of such things wrought Harry Potter to his knees, and shattered his heart against the flagstones. He could not bear to see anymore broken possibility as his eyes flooded, and reduced his vision to blurs and color. This vision was better, he reason, than any of the others. This vision showed the world for what it was, what it had to offer: distortion, madness, meaningless shapes and colors that were somehow connected.

Someone, he hoped it was Ron, came and collected him without so much as a word, and guided him away from his dearest departed best friend and her mate, into the castle, and away from the carnage that had been so needlessly wrought.

 

Fleur’s eyes opened slowly in death, staring eternally through flesh, bone, masonry and stone; all that ever was and all that never existed. Even in death, she clutched Hermione’s body to her own in a hold that the morticians could not break. Though dead, her eyes were laden with an immortal sorrow. And even after her body had been burned to ash and spread to the corners of the earth, this sorrow would live, thrive, as it nurtured the idea of possibility and as it infected reality.

 

* * *

 

_It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea._

_That a maiden there lived, whom you may know,_

_By the name of Annabel Lee._

_This maiden, she lived, with no other thought,_

_Than to love, and be loved by me._

_I was a child, and she was a child,_

_In this kingdom by the sea,_

_But we loved with a love that was more than love,_

_I and my Annabel Lee._

_With a love that the wing’ed seraphs of Heaven_

_Coveted her and me._

_But our love was stronger by far than the love_

_Of many far older than we,_

_Of many far wiser than we,_

_And neither the angels in Heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea,_

_Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee._

_And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_

_Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,_

_In the sepulcher down by the sea,_

_In our tomb by the surrounding sea._


End file.
